The Times, They Are a' Changin'
by APat96
Summary: Richard and Adele are a young couple living in South Carolina in the 1960's when disaster strikes, and one of Adele's heros is left dead. Richard looks back on this day with a newfound wisdom, and is proud to have lived through these troubled years, knowing that they have added to his character. R and R, please!


"Turn up the set! Cronkite's on!"

_"From Dallas, Texas, the flash, apparently official: 'President Kennedy died at one PM Central Standard Time', two o'clock Eastern Standard Time, some thirty-eight minutes ago."_

A gasp echoed through the joint. Men, women, children were wide-eyed, silent, faces fixed on that shoddy little set at the lunch counter. Hopeful, almost. Hoping for what? Cronkite to announce that it was all just some sick, twisted joke? A late April fool's day taking place in November? Who knows?

Me, well, I'm just standing there. In the service entryway, that is. I've got about thirty pounds of rank, reeking garbage in my hands, ready to go out into the hot South Carolina air. 'Course, when I heard the news, those two black bags fall to the floor, leaking spoiled milk onto the cracked, checkered tiles.

"Boy, you better clean that there spill up!" The manager called, ripping his eyes from the set long enough to reprimand. As if the floor were sparkling clean to begin.

I'd like to respond. Hell, my job _depends_ on my response. You see, I'm just supposed to answer: 'Yes suh' and go on with it. Racial pride, my ass. That's what they expect of you, and that's what you gon' give them, if you expect to be paying the rent this month.

See, here's the problem, though: I can't get my mouth to move. It's like someone's gone and shoved a pair of balled-up Jockeys in my mouth, nailed my lips shut. The air's been ripped out of me, too. The painful, think-your-chest-is-about-to-collapse kind of way. Only, it wasn't 'cause I'm grieving over Kennedy. Even if I was sorry for that, I really only had one thing on my mind right at that moment.

So, instead of giving Mr. Roberts what he wants, I let that spoiled milk settle into the crevices between them tiles. I left those stinking garbage bags right where they lay, and I turned, bolting for the door.

"Boy, you best be getting yer ass back in here! You hear me? Y'all come right back here and clean that up, or you can kiss yer job g'bye!"

Once again, I don't answer him. Bye-bye rent money. An' then I'm out that door, sprinting down that street 'til my lungs are hollering. I know the building I'm looking for, sure, no problem. I know the dirty, chipped brick front, the children playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, the old women sitting on the stoop, fanning theyselves and sewing. Sure.

Only by the time I reached that building, my lungs were rasping for air, and my legs were surely about to collapse out from under me, there ain't nobody out in front. Not a single soul. Just me, there, sitting on that stoop, taking in breath after breath 'til I sound like a greedy man, swallowing all that air. Hell, thirty five minutes of running, and you wouldn't sound any different.

I couldn't see Adele like that, though. Not looking like that. A man's gotta have some sort of integrity, right? So I rub the sweat from my face with my forearms. I straighten my shirt, hoping that she'll forgive me for the stains. I blink my eyes a couple times, hoping to be alert for whatever happens up in that apartment. And I think about Adele, right there and then, 'cause I knew this trashes her plans for change.

See, you probably don't know Adele, but she's from Alabama, and, in my opinion, the best gal in the whole wide world. Tall and thick, like a tree, with chocolate coloring. Oh, and with the best sweet tea this side of Columbia. Always wears these soft linen dresses, with big, fat flowers on them. Dresses up and such. Red lips, dark eyes, the works. Oh, man, you should hear that voice of hers. Just like honey. Moved here after them men in hoods killed her daddy an' Wallace didn't do nothin' about it. She always—

Hell, I don't even know why I'm telling you this. Y'all don't need to know Adele's backstory. The only thing you really oughta know about Adele is that she was really into politics. Oh yeah, all those guys in the newspapers. King, Evers, Kennedy—_anyone _capable of doin' _something. _She was inspired by the marches King led, an' all those speeches he gave. I swear, to this day, that she believed King was some sort of angel sent down from heaven.

That's when I start walking. Four flights of crooked stairs later, and I'm there, standing with my face to the door, the yellowing tiles underneath them scuffed shoes I always wear. A light rap on the door, and the jagged wood is gone, replaced with a woman's face.

"Oh, Richard." Adele whispered, her face crumpling, and, proud and tall as she is, leaning and pressing her warm face against my chest.

"Aw, baby, let's go sit down." I hear myself say, and I feel her head nod against my chest as I lead her over to the sofa.

"You…you heard?"

"Yeah."

"You ran." She noticed. I nodded. "Didn't need to."

"What 'bout that change down here you always talkin' 'bout?"

"Richard," She sighed through her nose, looking up at me. "You an' I both know there ain't gon' be no change 'round here."

"Try as you want, but I know, for a fact, that there's some stuff brewin'."

"Oh, really," She said, dubiously, "What's gon' happen now?"

"I—I don't know."

"Do y'all think I'm gonna have to go back to Montgomery?"

"Baby, I'm sure you'll be fine."

"Richard," She said, her voice gaining strength, "I cain't go back to 'Bama!"

"Nobody's gon' make you."

"Sure they is!"

"Who the hell is 'they'?"

"Oh, don't be stupid, Richard! _They_."

"Adele, calm down, you're gettin' hysterical."

"They gon' kill us. They gon' shoot us dead!"

"Aw, you hush. Nobody's gonna kill us."

"Yeah they is!" She said, pushing me away. "Now there's nobody to make the laws to protect us. They gon' kill King, too!" Adele cried. "Things were finally startin' to get better!"

"Just 'cause one man died, don't mean that the whole government is gone!"

After a long pause, she said: "Face it, Richard, nobody's gon' care about us niggers. We're _dirt_ to them!"

"Adele, don't _say _that!"

"What? That we niggers? I'm _gonna_ say it, Richard, 'cause that's what we is to them, now."

"Adele, stop it! You're being ridiculous!" I find myself yelling. Above us, I hear someone pound on the floor, telling us to be quiet. "We ain't slaves no more, we can _do_ things, now! You think that's gonna change?"

"Richard—"

"No. You listen to me. My great-grandmamma didn't work her ass off in some white lady's kitchen for us to be sittin' here, worryin' 'bout what they gonna think of us now. For the record, yours didn't neither!" At this, Adele raised her hand, open-palmed, and for a moment, I thought she was gonna slap me.

Then, though, she bit her lip, closing her eyes in a deep, mournful expression. As the hand slowly lowers, I find myself searching her face, looking for something, _anything_. She wasn't givin' me nothing. Then, slowly, she sunk back down to the sofa, placing her head in her hands and rubbing madly at her temples.

"Fine." She said, quietly. "Fine."

"What?"

"I said," She began, raising her voice, "Fine. I'll…wait it out, see what happens. But, I swear, if Johnson and them government men up there take even one small misstep, I'll—"

"Go to Washington and kick their asses yourself. I know." I said with a small smile.

"You can bet on that." She answered, smiling lightly. I sat back down, next to her, and we didn't speak. What can you say, at this point? That's right, you can't go saying _nothing_. So, you're left there, sitting in silence.

Now, I don't really remember much of what happened that weekend. I s'pose we read the papers about the funeral and such. Probably saw pictures of that little boy salutin' his daddy's casket. Probably walked around in silence.

I remember holding Adele in my arms when we heard about King bein' assassinated. Cried for days. I remember hearing her voice jump when she heard about the younger Kennedy dying. I remember kissin' her goodbye as I stepped onto the bus for boot camp. I remember realizing, at that moment, that we had lived. I mean, really _lived_. We'd seen it all…been to hell an' back. Yessir, I knew it. We'd lived.

I remember.

That quiet day, when the grandmamas abandoned their sewing and their stoops, that day that the kids left their hopscotch, that day that all the faces in America were glued to their sets, that day Cronkite made his announcement, that day that the President and Miz Jackie took a ride through Dallas, that day that the Nineteen sixties _really _began…that day will last a lifetime. Hell, maybe even more.

People'll always be talking 'bout the day some scrawny little white man took down the president of the United States. People'll always be talking about the sixties. People'll always be talkin' about the civil rights movement. You can take me by my word—I swear it—that's never gonna change.


End file.
